Page 58 of Obey

“Oh, really?” I said. “Because it looks exactly like you’re inside your assistant on the same mattress I paid for.”

He flinched.

“You don't get it,” he said quickly. “This was her idea. I was trying to let her down easy.”

“By fucking her into the mattress?” I asked. “Damn, Preston. You couldn't just send a rejection email like a normal person?”

His jaw worked, hunting for a version of this where he wasn't the villain.

“Can you stop being sarcastic for five fucking seconds? I'm trying to explain.”

“Oh, please do.” I folded my arms. “I'd love to hear how your dick accidentally ended up in your assistant.”

“You think everything's a fucking joke, Sloane. Every time I try to have a serious conversation with you, you've got something smart to say.”

“A serious conversation?” I repeated. “Preston, I just caught you cheating on me. What the hell is there to discuss?”

He dragged a hand over his face. “This is exactly what I'm talking about. You never stop to consider how I feel. It's always about what you want, what you need, what you're in the mood for.”

I gaped at him. “What does any of that have to do with you fucking somebody else?”

“Maybe if you weren't always pushing me to do shit I'm not comfortable with, we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

“Oh, so it's my fault you couldn't keep it in your pants?” My tone rose in disbelief. “You're the one who said you were okay with trying something new. I just didn't think I needed to specify the person sitting on your dick had to be me.”

“Yeah, well, you take things too far.” He scoffed. “A little spanking, fine. A bit of role-play, whatever. But all that other shit—the ropes, the choking. It's obsessive. You need help.”

I looked at him, really looked, and the last decade replayed in a sickening flash; every sacrificed want, every swallowed ‘no,’ every compromise made for his comfort.

The punchline to a long, cruel joke finally landed. I was disposable.

I tilted my head, lips curving slow, cold. "You're right. I do need help. Help to remember why I ever thought a man with a three-pump max deserved a lifetime contract."

I reached up and slid the engagement ring off my finger. It hit the dresser with a soft, final clink.

“We’re done,” I said.

He looked genuinely confused, as though me ending our engagement had never occurred to him as a possibility. The moment he realized I meant it, alarm flashed across his face.

“Sloane, wait!”

I turned away, yanked open the closet, and grabbed the first suitcase I could reach. Clothes came off hangers in ugly, frantic handfuls.

“You’re being irrational,” he snapped, pulling on his pants. “We can fix this.”

“Fix this?” I said. “You fucked your assistant, and then blamed it on me for wanting you. There’s nothing left to fix.”

I snapped the suitcase shut and headed for the living room. Behind me, Preston ordered his assistant to get dressed.

A minute later, she emerged from the bedroom with her heels in one hand and her purse clutched against her chest. She avoided my eyes as she hurried toward the front door.

“Don't worry,” I called after her. “You can keep him.”

She didn't answer. The door clicked shut behind her and Preston didn't even bother going after her. His attention was entirely on me now.

Rolling my eyes, I grab my purse, which was still by the front door and I dug out my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped it, but somehow, I managed to find Trey's contact and hit call.

Trey answered on the second ring. "Hey, brunch queen. Miss me already?"